


sanctuary

by ninemoons42



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Covert Operation, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Judaism, Medical Trauma, Prayer, Priests, Religion, Roman Catholicism, Soldiers, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42





	sanctuary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Clocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clocks/gifts), [Clear_Liqueur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clear_Liqueur/gifts), [keio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keio/gifts), [xsilverdreamsx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsilverdreamsx/gifts).



  


title: sanctuary  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
word count: approx. 3310  
fandom: X-Men: First Class [movieverse]  
characters: Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr  
rating: PG-13  
notes: Stemming from a series of prompts provided by my dear [Clocks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/clocks), [Clear_Liqueur](http://archiveofourown.org/users/clear_liqueur), [keio](http://archiveofourown.org/users/keio), and [xsilverdreamsx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xsilverdreamsx). Basic idea was, there should be a fic in which Charles was a priest and he wound up offering sanctuary to Erik who was on the run. Here's my take on it.  
Thank you, ladies, for the inspiration!

  
Mornings were mornings, to Father Charles in his little neighborhood church. It was good to be tucked away in a relatively quiet suburban neighborhood; it was quiet, and humbling, to minister to white-haired ladies and gentlemen and their grandchildren. It was a sobering thought, that there was rarely anyone his own age to see in the pews or coming to mass, but it was a burden he would shoulder with a patient, forbearing good cheer - as he should.

Up before the sun and into his usual clothes. Black cassock - the wool was not a hardship, not right now when the winter seemed to want to hold on for as long as it could before finally relinquishing its dominance to spring. Black trousers - he had to mend the knees, again, and he went and took out the sewing kit from the closet and left it on his nightstand next to a book of commentaries on Mariology. Vestments for the early morning mass. A smile for the little flock, and his usual comment, "Everyone please come and sit here in the front pews," and there were shuffles and smiles and an occasional loud question from one of the children in response.

He was now more than used to celebrating this first mass all by himself, and afterwards he tried to go about his morning meditations as he set the church in order. Sweeping up the dust, lighting and replacing the handful of candles burning before the Holy Eucharist, taking out the wilted flower offerings laid before the handful of images at the back of the church.

Father Charles always reserved a special smile for the image of Saint George slaying the dragon - the ivory of the face and hands old and yellowed long before he had come to this place to care for his parishioners who were now his friends. A reminder to be both vigilant and compassionate while still being good and faithful, an example of courage in even the plainest and humblest of situations.

He was just about to retire to his little room behind the church for breakfast when there was a sudden banging on the door. It was all he could do not to jump in surprise - but he did wind up spilling candle wax on his left wrist and sleeve, and he hissed at the pain and shook all over with the burn, before he pulled the side door to and looked out. "This door is always open - what?"

Blood, that was blood on the steps of his church - a man on his hands and knees, wounds on his face and probably his shoulder too if the way he was carrying his arms was any indication. Pain haunting the grey eyes and the deep lines surrounding a thin mouth - pale from blood loss?

Father Charles didn't hesitate - he responded to the voice that seemed to call his name, the voice that called him to be of assistance to this newcomer in any way he could.

And almost despite himself he began to remember the things he'd learned as a House officer in Oxford - first aid and more, the whys and wherefores of treating a trauma patient. Another lifetime, but past and present had to come together now, and he moved without any hesitation. "Give me your hands," he said, in a calm and soothing voice. It was surprisingly easy to lift the man - his patient - to his feet. Heedless of the blood staining his cassock, having forgotten his own burns and his hunger, Father Charles helped the other man to his feet.

For some reason the patient kept his eyes averted from the altar, from the carved wooden crucifix hanging from the eastern wall, and Father Charles wondered if the man practiced some other faith, and might be afraid of being subjected to a conversion. Right there and then he made up his mind to simply be a minister and a doctor.

"Almost there," he said, soothingly, and he really didn't care who this man was or what had happened to him - the only important thing was that he save his life, if he could.

By the time they were in sight of his little room, Father Charles noticed that the man was starting to mutter under his breath. His voice was rough and dulled around the edges with pain and something else, something deeper than that - something that was so familiar to the young priest that it took him a long moment to remember what it was.

Grief.

What was this man mourning? What was he praying for?

 _"Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Ehad,"_ the man was saying.

Father Charles smiled and said, in a tone that was calculated to encourage, "I appreciate the sentiment, and understand what you mean, but believe me, those are not quite going to be your last words yet. Not if I have any say in it."

He was still very surprised when he got a response. "I'm assuming," the stranger said, in an accent that seemed to change and slide with every word, "you learned these things elsewhere - I cannot imagine that a man of your cloth would be completely aware of, and respectful of other traditions."

"That I have been sufficiently educated in my own orthodoxy, I hope is true. That I want to learn of others enough to understand how its practitioners would act, is something I undertake of my own free will. And that includes you, howsoever you practice."

Father Charles was surprised again when that netted him a bitter laugh. "Spoken not as a priest but as a scholar - what are you doing in those robes, Father, you should be wearing academic dress."

"I did, once."

"And?"

"I should be disturbed you are asking questions about a life that is now dead to me," Father Charles murmured, with only a slight edge of disapproval in the words. "But if you can think of these things then you will not have reason to think of your injuries, and it will be easier for me to tend to you."

That got him a sardonic chuckle - immediately followed by a pained gasp.

Once in his little room, Father Charles immediately laid his patient out, wincing in sympathy when the man groaned in deep pain. He went to wash his hands as thoroughly as he could under the circumstances, and then reached for his medical supplies. From the large crate he kept tucked under his bed he pulled out a large pair of surgical shears. "I will have to cut your clothes away, my friend, but you may cover yourself with the blanket for modesty's sake."

"Do what you want," the man said.

Cutting away the blood- and sweat-soaked shirt revealed the bullet wound in the man's upper left arm, and a singular concentration of bruises on his torso - and, as the man writhed in pain, in the small of his back. "Who has been doing this to you?" Father Charles whispered, shocked, though his hands were still steady.

He thought back to nights working on the Accident & Emergency shifts, and then it was easy: assess the situation, prep the patient, get to work. "This is going to hurt," he warned, as he dug in the crate for the necessary implements.

"I do not want to know how a priest as young as you could talk as though he were an old campaigner in hospitals, unless you are going to tell me you have been in a war zone...."

"Nothing of the sort. But I've come close," was all Father Charles would say.

It was hard work, digging out the bullet in the stranger's arm, but in the end Father Charles was wiping the sweat from his brow, was mopping away the blood and the dust from his patient's face. A glass of water for himself, and then he refilled it and placed it on the nightstand, unfortunately on the man's left side, so he was going to have to help him with it if - when - the man should awake.

The stranger had passed out.

A small mercy, perhaps.

Father Charles clucked his tongue softly at the ruin they'd made of the bed: blood everywhere, little snips of thread from the suturing, sweat and dirt and mud.

And from there he looked at the stranger once again. A weathered, scarred face. Newer scrapes and bruises on cheekbone and along jawline. A similarly mistreated body - and Father Charles blinked, partly in shock and partly in renewed surprise, and he went to get some ice from the little refrigerator. There wasn't enough to completely cover the welter of bruises on the stranger's torso, but he did what he could, soaking a washcloth in the coldest water he had and then piling the little ice cubes in a second. Laying out the wet washcloth over the flat stomach, the lines and planes of muscle; then setting the ice over that.

Now he was out of washcloths. Father Charles sighed and for a moment considered cursing his humble existence, the barest basic necessities of his calling and his life, and then he set his teeth and took the next resolve.

Out of the cassock, which he set aside reverently. Black shirt beneath - the wool was hard to tear, but in the end he was holding his right sleeve in his hand. Washing that out, too, and soaking it in cool water, then folding it up into a little square and using it to sluice away the worst of the dirt on that face, patting gingerly around the edges of the bruising.

All this for a stranger, and Father Charles was still hungry, and he breathed out a soft prayer of supplication - _Let this be enough, let my work suffice, give him strength_ \- before he walked out of the bedroom and left the man to rest.

A cup of coffee, some bread and - a treat - he still had some peanut butter stashed away. Spoon in hand, he considered leaving it entirely for the stranger, because from the fragments of conversation they'd had he was sure something simple and kosher would be welcomed - but in the end he let his own fatigue get the better of him. Still, he allowed himself just one heaping spoonful of the treat - then he washed the dishes and set the peanut butter aside with the spoon for later.

The next problem was going to be - well, his own bed, a place for him to sleep. The man was going to need some supervision for the next day or two. Of course he'd have to leave him for his duties - but in the night, should the man need assistance, Father Charles was going to need to be nearby.

There was nothing for it but to move the threadbare armchair, with the stuck spring that tended to leave him with a bruised backside if he lost himself in one of his books, into his room. He was sure he'd wake even the dead with the noise he was making - but his patient slept on, oblivious.

He ought to sit down and rest - but first. Father Charles went back out to the church and finished putting it in order - it seemed like hours since he had found the stranger, but the clock showed that it was only midmorning. More than enough time to say his daily devotions - he knelt down at the steps before the altar, rosary in hand, and prayed for his flock and for his patient.

Another drink of water afterwards, cool water from the faucet overflowing his cupped hands.

When he passed the little mirror in the bathroom Father Charles stopped, and looked away, coloring up in spite of himself.

Well of course he looked a wreck, and strangely funny besides since he was now missing one sleeve. There were still traces of blood on his skin, his hands and his arms, and there was dust in his hair and in the lines of his face.

A strange way to resemble the man recovering in his bed. The shock to his system when he'd recognized the grief that was haunting the man's grey eyes.

He let himself take the moment - it was hard, even though the pain of his loss receded a little more with every passing day. A girl who'd stepped forward to save his life - himself unable to escape unscathed, and until now his knees still hurt in the cold nights and in his long hours of prayer.

"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference," Father Charles whispered - and he changed his shirt, picked up his book, and settled in to wait.

The day passed without incident, much to Father Charles's surprise. Used as he was to the quiet passing of the hours, he couldn't help but feel a jolt passing through him, like a lightning strike to his heart and to his mind, every time the man in his bed shifted.

In the end, nothing seemed to give him solace: not the usual calm that he could find in his studies, nor the soft grace he often found wrapped around himself after the evening mass. Tonight there was scant comfort to be found in seeing a few more faces in the pews. Normally this was the highlight of his day, the smiles and the trembling handshakes like balm to the quiet ministrations of his days and nights.

But now there was something else pulling at him, and all throughout the mass, all throughout his solitary dinner, he found himself praying for guidance, in a way he thought he'd left behind at the seminary.

Charity could not begin to explain it - for his parishioners needed him as much as the man did.

A nameless pull. It made him fall on his knees and whisper more fervently during his evening devotions, alone amid the sounds of the neighborhood settling in for the night. Rosary beads clicking in his hands as he implored for help, as he reached out for the guidance he so desperately needed.

A glimmer of an answer coming slowly to him, beneath the soft crackle and hiss of candle flame - as he extinguished all but the scant handful of lights protected by lampshade and glass. A hard path to tread, a long night. Listen, the voice in his heart seemed to tell him. There is no judgment. There is only hope, and there is only understanding.

When he returned to his quarters Father Charles was immediately torn between sympathy and worry, because the stranger was up and wincing, and was trying to get to his feet. Setting aside his fears, Father Charles hurried to him, and it was easy to support the stranger on his shoulders.

"I need to get to the bathroom," the stranger was muttering, spots of red high in his cheeks.

"All right."

The stranger was ashen-faced and shaking as he stumbled back out, into Father Charles's steady grasp, and he could only murmur a distant thanks when he was returned to the sleeping quarters.

After, however, Father Charles helped him into the armchair first. "At least let me try to do something about the sheets," the young priest said. "You can't be comfortable, lying in your own sweat and in that blood." Spare sheets, fluffing up the little pillow. It was harder to pull the stranger out of the armchair - but soon enough he was back on the bed, chest heaving for breath. The short time up had clearly exhausted him, and Father Charles whispered apologies, and: "Hungry?"

"Thirsty."

"Drink this," and Father Charles offered him the glass, watched him drain it dry and then went out to fill it again. "More?"

"Later."

"All right," Father Charles said again. A brief silence, and then - "Will you need some privacy?"

"For what?"

"Evening prayers."

"You've completed yours."

Father Charles nodded.

"Then I will consider that you have said something for me, and take it as it stands."

"A different observance, I'm sure."

That got him a sardonic little smile. "What, no preaching? No friendly comparisons? No attempts at conversion?"

Father Charles shrugged. "Would you listen, if I did?"

"Of course not."

"Then what's the use of beginning? I am not here for that. I am here to listen, and I am here to look after you, and that is all."

The stranger looked taken aback. "I have not often observed such forbearance from people who wear the same clothes as you."

"It's a pity, isn't it," Father Charles said, nodding agreement. "But again I reassure you. I offer only compassion."

"Thank you," the stranger said after a while.

"All I ask is that you call me by my name," the priest said, smiling, after a moment. "I am Father Charles Xavier."

"You are a priest, and you are a doctor of some kind, and you are obviously a scholar buried away among his scant handful of books."

"As I said, the second thing belongs to my past, and is only called into service for now. I'm afraid I'm guilty of the last part, though, very much so. I could not live without my books."

"You remind me of someone I used to know, who was kind to me, even if she was a little bit...abrasive."

Father Charles allowed himself a wistful smile. "I know the feeling."

And then there was a hand stuck out to him. "If I tell you my name, and where I've come from - are you obliged to tell others? Must you report on your activities?"

Father Charles felt his eyebrows rise. "Certainly not; we are under no seals here, you and I, but I will keep any secrets you ask me to."

"Because you can tell no one about me, or that I was here."

"I give you my word."

The stranger looked startled, again. "It cannot be as easy as that."

Father Charles shrugged. "It will be as you think it will be. As for my part, this is already a sacred trust. You may know my name, but you do not have to tell me yours."

A long silence.

Father Charles watched the man shift on the bed.

And then there was a hand extended to him, though the man was looking away. "Erik. Erik Lehnsherr."

"Hello, Erik," Father Charles said, and took his hand briefly. "And now you really ought not to be saying anything else."

Erik shook his head, and hissed in pain at his own sudden movements. "Then who else will know - there's no one left to remember me, and I will be denied. I'm only a _sayan_."

"I don't know what that is, and I don't know why you're distressed - but if silence will help you...."

"Nothing can help me now. Someone ought to know. And I've already imposed on you - I might as well tell the truth."

Father Charles held up a quelling hand.

To no avail - because Erik struggled into a sitting position and looked at him with those haunted eyes.

Listen. Offer no judgment. Think of hope. Give him understanding.

"All right," Father Charles whispered. "Have at it. I give you my word that what you tell me will be as though said under an oath of silence, one that I cannot be compelled to break."

"Thank you," Erik said, and he looked away, and began: "I am a _sayan_ : an unregistered Mossad operative - off the books, I think is the expression. Off the books and therefore one who can be denied in case the work is compromised...."


End file.
